Title: Notes

Chapter 6

Author's Notes: Ah, I don't really have anything to say. ; )

When Catherine was on the graveyard shift, she spent a lot of time in Grissom's office. It was kind of like going to the principal's office. She knew she was going to get a lecture or at least an exasperated look. She hoped she wouldn't get suspended. So she learned to have a well-rehearsed excuse ready just in case she needed it. Or at least a good argument for why she were perfectly justified in her behavior. Once, she argued her way out of a detention even though she was caught red-handed sneaking into the boys' locker room when she was supposed to be in Biology. She figured that her principal, Mr. Munroe, was so impressed by her audacity that he cut her loose out of some begrudging admiration. And Gil, he usually cut her some slack because he's a pushover.

Licking her lips, Catherine gazes at the squirming CSI sitting across from her. She tugs her lip and thinks how it's really weird to be on the other side of the desk.

It's so weird, in fact, that she stands up, walks around her desk, and plunks down in an empty chair beside Nick. "What happened out there today, Nicky?" Catherine asks. She winces at her own voice as soon as she realizes that she sounds every bit as exasperated as Gil or Mr. Munroe. And she certainly doesn't mean to. In fact, she internally scolds herself, because whenever she pictured herself as a boss, she always thought she could be really good at it, but still be kind of cool. Exasperated isn't cool.

Nick fidgets in his seat and mumbles something unintelligible. Catherine's guessing he got sent to the principal's office one time during his entire academic career, and it was probably for something like being five minutes tardy to class. And knowing Nicky, he probably burst out into tears and apologized profusely. Which is what Catherine thinks he's about to do right now.

"Catherine," he says in a cracked voice. "I'm sorry. I acted completely unprofessional." Folding his arms across his chest, Nick takes a staggered breath. "I'm sorry."

How can she be expected to lecture him? He looks so cute.

Leaning forward, she says, "Tell me what happened."

Nick doesn't say anything at first. Instead, he glances up at Catherine, with an expression that suggests he's alarmed to have been asked to talk. After a few seconds, Nick raises his head. "I'm not sure," he says quietly, his breath hitching slightly. "He lied to my face, and I guess I just snapped."

Snapped is about right. According to Warrick, it took both him and Brass to pull Nick out of the room after he lunged across the table at the suspect, Tyler Kimball. Catherine wouldn't have been so surprised if it had been Warrick who lost his temper. Irritated, but not surprised. Truthfully, she could even picture herself going off on Kimball. But Nicky? It's like finding out your golden boy son is on drugs.

"Well," she says, trying to keep her tone nurturing and supportive. "That's not the first time a suspect has done that, Nick."

Nick bites his bottom lip. "I know," he chokes. Letting out a frustrated breath, he stares at his legs and plays with the seam on his jeans. After a few seconds, he looks up. "But Catherine," he says. "This guy is such an ass. You know what he said to me? He made some comment about my accent and my IQ."

Catherine licks her lips. "Look, Nicky," she says. "I can understand why you'd want to rip him a new one. I've been there." She leans forward and pats his forearm. "But you can't go popping off at a suspect like that."

Letting out a breath, Nick sits up a little straighter and says, "Look, I said I was sorry, Cath. And I am. I was out of line." He clenches his jaw. "But why did you ask me what happened if you weren't going to listen?"

He has a point. Catherine gazes at him for a moment. "You're right. And I'm sorry. Look," she says. "Bottom line, you played into his hand. He was trying to piss you off."

Nick nods. "Am I off the case?"

"Do you need me to take you off the case?"

Grimacing, Nick says, "No. I want to get this guy."

Catherine smiles. "Then as far as I'm concerned, you're still on."

"Cool," Nick says. He glances at the door. "So can I go?"

"Not just yet," Catherine says, gazing at Nick. She's been meaning to have a talk with him. Now is as good a time as any, she guesses. Cocking her head, she asks, "Y'okay? In general, I mean?"

Nick shifts in his chair. "I'm fine."

"You've seemed kind of edgy and angry lately. And maybe a little sad."

"Come on. I'm not angry, Cath," Nick says brusquely. "Or sad."

"You're not yourself."

"Really," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Who am I?"

"Nick," Catherine says patiently. "I'm not trying to get on your case."

"Why am I still here then?" Nick snaps.

Catherine grimaces. "Nick," she says gently. "As your supervisor, I have to make sure you're okay. And what happened today, and this attitude I'm hearing right now, it out-of-character for you. And we're going to talk about it."

Nick crosses his arms. "So," he says. "If I made a habit of this kind of behavior, we'd be done already?"

For a moment, Catherine sits in stunned silence. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Nick spent a little more time rebelling as a kid than she thought. If he didn't, he's a fast learner. For a fleeting moment, Catherine wonders if Lindsay has been giving him pointers.

Cute or not, he's getting a lecture now, dammit.

About then, Catherine hears a knock at the door. Shooting Nick a look, she walks over to the door and cracks it open. "Warrick? Whatcha need?"

"I'm sorry to bother you," he says, peering over her shoulder at Nick. "I need you for a second."

Catherine glances back at Nick, who's looking very much like he's planning to slip out while Warrick has her distracted. "You just get comfortable," she says, willing him back into the chair with a stare she's cultivated during years of being a mother. "What's up, Rick?" Catherine asks, as she steps out into the hall.

Warrick gazes down the hall toward the interview room. "Kimball's getting antsy. Brass wants to kick him loose."

Catherine throws up her hands. "Well, we don't have anything to hold him on."

Smacking his leg with his fist, Warrick says, "The guy's obviously guilty."

"Now, don't you start," Catherine scolds. The last thing she needs is to haul both her guys into for office time. Placing a hand on Warrick's shoulder, she says, "If he's guilty, we'll get him."

Warrick lets out a breath. Jerking his head toward Catherine's office, he asks, "He all right?"

"He's fine," she says, even though she not sure that's accurate. Nick's work has been top notch, as usual. But it's become clear to Catherine, and to Warrick and Brass and even Bobby D down in ballistics that Nick's been a little off lately. He's been getting harder and more remote for a while now. As sensitive as Nick is, and with all violence they see in their jobs as CSIs, Catherine isn't surprised, and she certainly doesn't blame him. But since he wrapped his last case, Nick's gotten colder, quieter. He and Brass were called in to investigate the murder of the Maxwell family—four kids, parents, dog… One of the kids held on for a while. Nick and Brass found him in a closet and rushed him to the hospital. But it was no use.

After Warrick walks away, Catherine toys with heading to the break room for a cup of coffee. It would serve Nick right to sweat for a while. But instead, she opens the door and walks back in. Nick glances over his shoulder at her, and Catherine notices how young and vulnerable he looks. She figures he's had some time to think and reign in his attitude.

"So where were we?" Catherine asks, lowering herself into the chair.

Nick taps his fingers against the arm of the chair. "They cutting Kimball loose?"

"Mm hm."

"Because I got in his face?"

Catherine smiles and shakes her head. "Nah," she says. "We don't have enough on him. And I know that's frustrating."

"It is," Nick says. "I'm tired of…I'm just tired."

Cuffing him on the shoulder, Catherine says, "Nicky, I don't want to lecture you or yell at you. Just don't make this a trend, okay?"

He shakes his head. "I won't, Cath."

"And if you want to talk about anything, my door is open."

"Okay."

"All right," she says, waving him away. "You're outta here. Go get a soda. We'll regroup and figure out what to do next."

Nick mumbles a quick, "Thanks Cath," and then practically leaps out of his chair and hurries out the door.

Catherine watches after him for a moment, and then lets out a breath. She worries about him, probably more than any of the others. After the Maxwell case, Nick went to his post-traumatic, and the shrink said he was fine. And maybe he is. Maybe Catherine just has to accept that fact that Nick is starting to put up the same kind of defenses she and Gil and Warrick and even Sara erected long ago. As much as she'd like him to retain some of his boyish sweetness, his sensitivity, maybe Catherine has to learn to let that part of him go.

"You sure you don't want me to bring you anything?" Sara asks Greg. "Or maybe you want to come with"

Greg points over his shoulder. "Nah," he says. "I brought a sandwich and some fruit."

"Your loss," she says, heading toward the door. "I'll be back."

"I'll be waiting," he says with a smirk. Stretching, Greg trudges toward the break room. He's tempted to go with Sara. He really is. Honestly, he doesn't know what he'd do without her. The last few months, she's been his guide through all of this death and decay. He can only imagine what it would've been like to have worked alone with Grissom all this time. It's funny, though. When Greg pictured going into the field, he pictured working with Sara and Catherine and Warrick…and Nick. He figured it would be like the old days, when he was in the lab, and everyone was feverishly working on one case together. This team split, this divorce, it blindsided him in a way he never expected.

As Greg rounds the corner to the break room, he spots Nick standing by the refrigerator, massaging the back of his neck. The same Nick who has been avoiding him for four days. Taking a breath, Greg bounds into the room. "Gotcha," he says, swooping over to Nick. "Where you been?"

Opening a can of soda, Nick gives Greg a look. "Here? I'm scheduled through tomorrow."

Greg leans against the refrigerator. "It's just that it's been, like, four days since we spent the night together. I figured you'd call or something."

Narrowing his eyes, Nick looks Greg up and down in a way that makes Greg feel more than a little exposed. "Phone works both ways, Greggo," he says.

Greg shrugs. "I just figured you would've called and thanked me for doing your laundry. I know you don't like to do it." Inwardly, Greg cringes at his own words. Way to piss him off, Greg thinks to himself.

"Thank you," Nick smirks. "From the bottom of my heart."

Shrugging Greg says, "Not exactly sincere, but I'll take it." He reaches into the refrigerator, pulls out his lunch, and then saunters with Nick to a table. "I was thinking," he says. "You want to maybe go get breakfast tomorrow? I could stop at the diner and order us something, bring it by your place."

"My place," Nick says.

Greg nods. "Your place."

Nick leans back in his chair. "What did you have in mind?"

Greg smiles mischievously. "Well," he says, leaning forward. "We could have breakfast, make sure we're both strong and well-fed. Then, we could think of something."

Nick laughs and shakes his head. "Something purely platonic, I'm sure. Because we're just friends, right?"

Letting out a breath, Greg rolls his eyes. "Do were have to go here every time we talk?"

"Look, G," Nick says, taking a sip of soda. "I got some personal stuff going on right now. I don't have time to do this with you."

"Personal stuff?" Greg sits up. "Like that note I found."

Shaking his head, Nick stares at Greg, open-mouthed. "You went through my stuff?"

"Well, yeah," Greg says. "It was in you pants pocket. I took it out when I was doing the laundry."

"You didn't have to read it."

Greg holds up his hands. "No, you're behavior makes sense now."

"It does?" Nick says, narrowing his eyes.

"Yeah," Greg nods. "I get the whole projection thing. See, you're really mad at the guy that wrote the note. He hurt you, and you're projecting your feelings—"

"I'm not projecting anything," Nick says, crushing the now-empty soda can between the balls of his hands. "I'm mad at you because you're acting like an ass right now." Greg opens his mouth to protest, but Nick shushes him and continues, "You say you want to be my friend, but whenever you want sex, who do you come to? Me." Nick pauses for a moment and glances over Greg's shoulder. "Hi," he says.

Greg twists his body around to see Jacquie, who's standing just inside the doorway, playing with the hem of her shirt. "Hi, guys," she says. Trying and failing to be casual, she inches her way into the room, snatches a salad out of the refrigerator, and disappears back into the hallway.

After a few seconds, Greg laughs. "Well, that was awkward."

"Yeah," Nick says. He's a deep shade of red right now, and it's all Greg can do to keep from reaching over and touching his cheek.

They sit there quietly for a few moments, until Nick says, "I just can't do this right now."

Greg nods. Part of him wants to keep talking, but what is there to say? He has questions, sure. Questions about who wrote Nick that note. And questions about what the hell it is that Nick wants from him. But Greg knows better than to push Nick right now. With a shrug, he says, "Fair enough."

Nick regards Greg for a moment, and then he slowly stands up. He knocks on the table in front of Greg. "Later, man," he says.

Greg watches Nick walk down the hallway and vanish around the corner. Then, taking a bit of his turkey sandwich, he runs his fingers through his shaggy locks and daydreams about pushing the rewind button on his relationship with Nick. He dreams about going back to the days when he and Nick were just friends, no romance involved to muck things up. Just video games and pizza. And he dreams of about going back to the days when he and Nick first gave in to their desires. The romance was there, for sure. But it was new and exciting, and it didn't scare the crap out of Greg the way it would as their relationship progressed. Those were some of the best times of his life.

And now they were daydreams.